Shattered
by Emeraldbuttercup
Summary: Shattered. Sherlock's been shot. John has all too much experience with bullet wounds. John must finally come to terms with his friend's return into his life. Set during 'His Last Vow'. "John could still feel the hole inside him, the empty void just below his heart. Every heartbeat the wound echoed, a cold and unfeeling reminder that he had been broken."
1. Cracking

**Set during 'His Last Vow', days after Sherlock reveals to John the truth about Mary. Epic friendship story.**

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"I did warn you."

"Been waiting this whole car ride to tell me that, have you?" Sherlock sighed through his nose in annoyance, leaning back wearily into the pristine leather. Mycroft smirked superiorly from the passenger seat, looking through the mirror to see Sherlock and John in the back.

"Had you not gone run away from the hospital, you would have been on the road to recovery days ago. But of course you had to go and prove your genius. The empty house was a bit dramatic, even for you." Mycroft sniffed distastefully. John's hand trembled slightly at the mention of the disastrous events just days prior.

_The paramedics rushing in, Sherlock's pained voice calling out his name, reaching for him. The whimpered cry as Sherlock fell to the floor, his heart failing and his punctured lung giving out. The defibrillator, the convulsion of Sherlock's thin body. He was running his hand through his friend's raven hair, tears staining his face as the stretcher was brought in. Sherlock had almost died again protecting John, showing him the truth- John was being pushed away, his hands torn from their clasp on his friend's pale face. Mary was watching him scream Sherlock's name over and over, her eyes devoid of any emotion. _

"John deserved to know." Sherlock answered Mycroft quietly, his voice thick from exhaustion. John blinked the nightmarish memories away, his hand still trembling on the seat.

"And running around London with him caused severe internal bleeding, which almost killed you for a second time in less than thirty-six hours." Mycroft countered smoothly. Ignoring Mycroft, Sherlock let his head loll back uselessly onto the headrest, his eyes fluttering shut.

John watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, trying without much success to seem relaxed. Ever the soldier at attention, John allowed himself to observe Sherlock.

He was a wreck.

His friend laid stretched out on the seat in a tangle of gangly limbs and IV tubes. Sherlock was gaunt, more so than John had ever seen him. His skin had a sickly sallow pallor that gave Sherlock the appearance of being more dead than alive. His raven curls were a wild mess from his pained tossing and turning in the hospital bed. The curls were slick with sweat from the physical pain Sherlock had endured in his move from the hospital ward to Mycroft's waiting sleek black car.

John felt like his heart was being mercilessly squeezed in an iron grip as he watched his friend try to steady his breathing. It was pitiful. The young man lay there limply, shuddering slightly as he took another rattling breath. His hands lay languidly in his lap on top of the pale blue hospital gown. The hospital gown, John realized, only served to highlight Sherlock's increasing thinness. The collarbone sharply jutting out from his chest, the wrist bones seemed too delicate all added to his skeletal appearance. Sherlock Holmes, the man back from the dead, looked ready to join their ranks once again.

John shook this thought away forcefully, repelling the hideous thought as he had many times in the recent days. Sherlock was recovering. Well, as much as one could recover, John mused listlessly, his own bullet wound aching in his chest.

Sherlock had just got out of surgery yesterday. Once they had deemed him stable enough, the doctors had finally removed the bullet that had been lodged into Sherlock's back. Sherlock's hadn't spoken much since then, his dark glacier eyes becoming distant.

John had been by his young friend's side through the entire god-awful night after the surgery. He had held Sherlock's slender hands encompassed in his own. The long, fragile fingers looked so foreign against his strong tanned ones. John had been there as Sherlock, drugged and half-delirious with pain, had tried to avoid sleep. He had finally succumbed, curling into himself for comfort. He had seemed so small in the hospital bed. John stayed by his side vigilantly, fighting away his own exhaustion with the promise he would be there for his friend.

Be there as he had not been since Sherlock's return from the grave.

He had abandoned his friend for Mary, and Sherlock had paid the price. He had taken a bullet because of John's own blindness.

_Sherlock's eyes dimmed with unattainable emotion."You chose her." His voice whispered in his soft baritone, the young detective smiling sadly down at him._

Memories of John's own war wound had flickered in the darken ward.

_The explosion before his eyes, the shock that had brutally ripped all thought from his mind. And the pain, the torture that ravaged his body with every gasping breath, every quiver of his heart._

John could still feel the hole inside him, the empty void just below his heart. Every beat the wound echoed, a cold and unfeeling reminder that he had been broken. A hole ripped through him. He had been shattered into a thousand pieces flying through the air, glinting with the light of the hellish Afghanistan sun.

Sherlock had been shattered too. You could see it in the depths of his cobalt eyes, the miniature stars falling one by one. Both men were broken.

Sherlock had always known that John was broken. Yet Sherlock had befriended him anyway, taking the broken soldier and giving his life new purpose.

_"I will solve your murder, but John Watson will save your life."_

John glanced at Sherlock, who had fallen asleep, his neck arched awkwardly so his head fell on the headrest. Carefully John reached over, mindful of the IV tubes. Grasping Sherlock's shoulder, John guided him to lay down stretched on the seat, his head falling into John's lap. John cautiously ran his hand through Sherlock's damp curls. John stopped abruptly as Sherlock shivered in his lap. A second later, a contented sigh escaped Sherlock's parted lips. John cautiously resumed stroking Sherlock's hair, laughing softly to himself as Sherlock's lanky frame attempted to curl into a ball.

"Like a cat." John chuckled, brushing Sherlock's bangs away from his closed eyes.

"I'm not the only one who's saved a life, you know." John echoed, low enough so Mycroft wouldn't hear.

"You saved mine."

John stroked Sherlock's hair, unaware that the tremor in his hand was gone.

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**Depending on the response I get, this will be a collection of one-shots. Please review and tell me what you think!**


	2. Breaking Point

The car was slowing. A single streetlight illuminated a sign in the growing twilight- Baker Street. John smiled sadly as they passed the weatherworn sign. This would be the first time since the fiasco with Mary that he would be back at his old flat.

It would be the first time in over two years that he would stay in 221B.

It had been an easy decision, in all reality. Quite honestly, it didn't seem like a decision at all. In the early hours of the morning at the hospital, his chair pressed against Sherlock's bed, John knew. Looking at his friend's beaten body, watching him as he gently breathed, the heart monitor steady beeping for the first time in hours… He knew that Sherlock needed him.

John knew he wouldn't disappoint him. Not again.

Besides, the tension between him and Mary right now didn't make his flat with her seem very welcoming. John hadn't been back, hadn't even left the hospital since Sherlock was admitted for the second time. He had loyally followed his friend from the Emergency room to ICU, and then finally to the low-risk hospital wards. Sometimes John would wander the halls to stretch his legs, or nip down to the vending machine on the third corridor.

But he was never far. Never farther than a five-minute dash to his friend's side.

John's only contact with Mary had been over the phone. She had offered to pack some of his belongings and bring them to the hospital for him, but John had refused. Somehow, the idea of Mary in the hospital with him… maybe in the same room as Sherlock… repelled him.

_Mary standing over Sherlock, drugged and helpless and so vulnerable. Mary's dead eyes as she watched John stumble blindly after the paramedics, crying Sherlock's name._

A lump formed in John's throat. The murderer and the victim, bound together because of his _choices._It made his head throb painfully just thinking about it. John ran his hand through Sherlock's hair, the curls lacing through his fingers. He smoothed a stray curl away from Sherlock's face with his thumb, the constant stroking calming his nerves.

The car slowed to a stop in front of the antique dark blue door. The brass knocker, John noticed with some amusement, was still tilted.

"I do hope Dr. Watson," Mycroft started lazily, turning in his seat to peer at John imperviously. "That you see to it my young brother does recover fully."

"Yeah, of course." John answered.

"I know you have- ah, plenty of experience with these matters. Bullet wounds, I mean." Mycroft said lightly. He glanced down at Sherlock, still passed out and partially curled in John's lap. Something in Mycroft's eyes flickered uncertainly as he gazed down at his brother. Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I so dislike moments like these." Mycroft said with a frown. "Just look at him. Peaceful. Quiet. Almost looks innocent, if that could be fathomable! Simply ghastly." John raised an eyebrow, completely puzzled by Mycroft's apparent attempt at sentiment. "You'll doctor him up though." Mycroft said passively, his fingers knitting together. "That is what you do, I suppose. You have my sincerest wishes for his speedy recovery." Mycroft said pensively. John blinked rapidly, utterly baffled.

"I- thought you said caring wasn't an advantage." John said, smoothing Sherlock's hair as he spoke.

"Of course it isn't." Mycroft answered harshly. "And this should be direct proof of it." Mycroft glanced at his brother's limp body once again, his complexion paling at the sight of the IV tubes connecting to Sherlock's arms. Mycroft's eyes had grown dark in thought.

"Goodbye, Dr. Watson." Mycroft snapped suddenly, a false pleasantness entering his voice like it had so on countless occasions. "Do keep me informed of my brother's status." The chauffeur of Mycroft's car walked around and opened John's door pointedly.

"Right then." John said with a nod, still puzzling over Sherlock's peculiar older brother. Carefully, John took a hold of Sherlock's shoulder and gave it a small squeeze.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, come on-" Sherlock groaned and buried his face in John's leg. After a long moment, Sherlock turned and looked around dazedly.

"Wha-"

"Mycroft's car." John offered as way of explanation. "Come on, we're home now." It was only after he had spoken them that John realized he had just called 221B home. He briefly thought about correctly himself, but decided against it. It would only draw attention to his slip up.

Besides, John reflected. It was his home. But like many other things of late, he had been simply too blind to see it.

"Wuza-" Sherlock moaned, wincing at the dying sunlight hit his eyes. He struggled to sit up, the bandages around his torso impeding his movement.

"You fell asleep." John added lamely, watching his disoriented friend sympathetically. Sherlock's gaze landed on Mycroft, and he frowned.

"No," Sherlock said moodily, his frown deepening. "I was most certainly not asleep. Your observational skills are worse than I feared. I was in my mind palace, trying to escape the imbelic lull of your moronic conversation. You were, simply put, boring." John almost laughed out loud at Sherlock's weak excuse, but wisely decided keep silent and not add to Sherlock's bruised pride. Mycroft, on the other hand, let out a huff of disbelief. Sherlock sent a deadly glare his way before moving suddenly. Grabbing his IV machine and opening his car door, Sherlock slid out. John moved to follow Sherlock.

"I don't need help!" Sherlock spat, turning around and regarding John coldly. There was an underlying note of desperation in Sherlock's tone. John surrendered and sank back into his seat, knowing that helping Sherlock would only add to his melancholy.

John frowned as Sherlock unfolded in a tangle of gangly limbs, clumsily setting the IV machine down on the ground. Straightening with a grimace, Sherlock started slowly down the sidewalk with the IV machine rolling next to him, the bag of vitals swinging on the metal pole. Sherlock walked to 221B's door with as much dignity as he could muster.

At least, enough dignity anyone can have when barefoot and only dressed in a thin hospital gown.

Mycroft chuckled as the door swung shut behind Sherlock.

"His stubbornness will be the end of him." Mycroft said, almost fondly, before turning serious again. "Keep a close eye on him."

"Right. Thanks for the ride, by the way." John said, climbing out of the car. "I'm sure Sherlock appreciates it too."

"And I'm sure he doesn't." Mycroft countered smoothly. "One more thing, Dr. Watson. Make sure that wife of yours doesn't harm Sherlock again, or I will be most displeased." John's fists clenched at his words, heat flushing into his face. Mycroft didn't even bother to look out of the window at him. The chauffeur started the car again, and it slowly started to glide back into the street.

"Have a good day." Mycroft called back lazily, his unspoken threat hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Soon the car was out sight.

John let out the breath he hadn't known he had been holding.

"Git," John breathed angrily, but couldn't shake the overwhelming sense of guilt that had suddenly overcome him. It was his fault Sherlock had been shot.

Because of his bloody _choices_.

John was beginning to loathe that word. Dear God, it wasn't like he had _chosen_ for Sherlock to be shot. The idea made him sick. And yet, he had chosen her, chosen Mary- the events later had spiraled out of his control. His choice set into motion so much more than he could have ever anticipated.

That didn't get rid of the guilt though.

John stepped up to the door, the brass 221B greeting him warmly. The dark blue hues he unconsciously associated with home relaxed him. John opened the door.

The sight that met his eyes made his heart freeze.

Just a few feet away, Sherlock was clinging pitifully to the wall in a weak attempt to remain upright. His breathless gasps, the cold sweat on his face- Before John could understand what he was doing, he was at Sherlock's side, grasping the young detective's arm as the young man's knees threatened to give way.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked soothingly, his doctor mode overcoming his mounting panic. Taking Sherlock's hand from where it had been cradling his middle, John took his pulse.

"Shhh…" Sherlock muttered, his eyes squeezed shut in apparent pain. "Shut up. Is Mycroft gone?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'll be fine."

"You are not fine." John answered calmly, putting a hand to Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock shivered at his touch, but didn't withdraw. His fever hadn't returned, that was good.

"Tell me what's wrong." John demanded.

"Mycroft." Sherlock spat. "Why does he always have to be there when my transport fails me? He enjoys it. Definitely enjoys it."

"Stop avoiding the question," John ordered, making Sherlock look him in the eyes. "Or so help me I will call an ambulance and rush you right back up to the hospital."

"You wouldn't."

"You know I would."

Sherlock stared up at John for a moment, before giving up and rushing into speech.

"I didn't take any of the morphine at the hospital. It compromises my brain's overall performance rate and-"

"Damn!" John swore venomously, slamming his fist into the floor. Sherlock's rant died in his throat, both surprised and intimidated by the army doctor's outburst. "Are you saying," John whispered tightly, trying in vain to hold back his rage. "That after being shot, puncturing a lung, internal bleeding, _flatlining for God's sake_-" John's voice cracked slightly. Sherlock blinked rapidly, his eyes wide.

"John, I-"

"I'm not finished!" John bellowed, not caring who heard. "After all you went through- all you put me through, for God's sake- are you seriously telling me that you- you didn't take any _painkillers?!"_

"But my mental harddrive's reaction to foreign chemicals deteriorates the-" Sherlock spouted desperately, John would have none of it.

"You." John intoned dangerously. "I don't give a damn about how fast your mind palace functions. You. Are. Hurt." John inhaled, trying to calm his racing heart. Sherlock continued to stare at him anxiously.

He looked… lost. Completely lost. The great Sherlock Holmes was speechless. John willed himself to control his anger.

"I'm not… mad, at you." John said awkwardly. "Okay, well yeah I am." John amended. "But not as mad as… worried. Just for once, Sherlock, for me- could you take care of yourself?!"

"I did not anticipate your reaction." Sherlock breathed, furrowing his brow. "I never expected… you have my apologies."

"Come on, you cock." John said, his voice softening. Sherlock smiled at him sheepishly, his eyes looking suspiciously wet.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I'll take some morphine now." Sherlock stated weakly.

"Right." John said, back to his professional self. "I'm going to pick you up-"

"What?"

"Sit up straight."

"You're trying to be humorous." Sherlock said suspiciously.

"Dead serious." John replied, standing back up.

"I can walk." Sherlock sniffed.

"Yes. Like how you walked up to the door and immediately collapsed as soon as you were out of view of Mycroft. Do you realize how utterly childish that is? Now shut up." With careful movements, John bent down and hooked his arm underneath Sherlock's knees. Gingerly he put his hand on Sherlock's back.

"Try to keep your back straight."

"This is ridiculous. I am perfectly-"

"You're perspiring, unconsciously gritting your teeth, and your eyes aren't focusing properly. Your arms are still wrapped protectively around your torso, meaning that's where the majority of the pain is. Steady breathing, lungs aren't bothering you. Wound is, probably stitches. Aching, no sharp pain. Conclusion, you need painkillers and sleep."

Sherlock blinked. Then blinked again.

"You do realize you just sounded exactly like me just now, right?"

"Shut it." John said, his face flushing. "Now, inhale deeply on three. One, two-"

"Do you have any idea how embarrassing-?!" Sherlock yelped as John straightened, cradling him in his arms.

"Are you alright?" John asked.

"No, I am most certainly not." Sherlock slurred. "My transport is failing. Epinephrine rush, nausea, massive drop in blood pressure, compromised vision…" Sherlock gritted his teeth together as a wave of pain toppled him.

"Movement triggering tremendous discomfort…" Sherlock blinked dumbly into space.

"Black dots though…" Sherlock mumbled, his voice growing softer.

"Head feels sorta funny…"

"Close your eyes." John said worriedly, already climbing up the stairs. "The dizziness should go away." Sherlock's eyes fluttered close restlessly as John continued to ascend the stairs to their flat.

"Hurts…" Sherlock groaned miserably. Sherlock inhaled deeply, his eyes squeezing shut. "Moving hurts…" Sherlock let his head fall against John limply.

"I know, sorry. Almost there." John hummed soothingly, making his way to the landing. "Can you turn the doorknob for me?" Sherlock reached a shaking hand out and opened the door. John rushed into the room, lowering Sherlock to the sofa. Sherlock rolled out his arms, not even bothering to try moving. John grabbed the Union Jack pillow from his armchair and hurriedly propped it underneath Sherlock's head.

"What's your palpitation average count per minute?" John called over his shoulder as he rushed into Sherlock's bedroom.

"Soft…" Sherlock mumbled, wincing as sharp pain coursed throughout his body. John emerged, an orange shock blanket in hand. The detective was staring listlessly ahead, his cognitive awareness slowly falling apart.

"What was that?" John asked anxiously, unfolding the beloved blanket. Sherlock's head lolled to the side so he could watch John.

"Your jumper," He whimpered, his spine arching as the pain increased. "'s soft…" Sherlock panted.

"This is soft too." John said kindly, spreading the warm orange fleece over Sherlock. Sherlock welcomed it, his fingers weakly grasping the edges. A low moan escaped his lips.

"It's worse… it's ripping m-me…" Sherlock whimpered, writhing in pain.

"It's alright." John urged, his voice strained. Getting to his knees he groped blindly underneath the sofa. John pulled his emergency medical bag out- as a doctor that had survived war, he knew to keep a first aid at all times. Unzipping the bag with a practice hand, he removed the syringes without even bothering to look.

"Acyclovir and Morphine, here it is." John looked up at the IV machine for a brief moment before shaking his head roughly.

"Damn, putting the drugs in your IV will take too long to enter your system. Direct injection into bloodstream then."

Sherlock's lips were pressed into a thin line, trying with all his strength to hide his weakness at bay. A single tear ran out of the corner of his eye, making its way for his gaunt face.

"Don't worry," John mumbled, grabbing hold of Sherlock's arm. He turned it gently over to expose his forearm. "I've got you." John whispered, sticking the needle into Sherlock's vein. Sherlock kept his eyes transfixed on John, his refusing to look at the syringe as John slowly pushed the drugs into Sherlock's bloodstream.

"There." John heaved, removing the needle. He hastily wiped the pinprick of blood off on Sherlock's arm. "That's a painkiller and a sedative. Try to calm down and even your breathing. The more adrenaline in your system, the longer it takes for the drugs to work."

John ran a hand over his face, his own panic leaving him breathless and shaking. The sight of his friend- maybe his only true friend- in pain hurt John more than he thought was possible.

It had been so long since John had been an emergency doctor. His work in the clinic, caring for children with colds or adults with mild infections, had been tame. There was something about watching a person in agony; depending on him to save them. But this had been Sherlock, his best friend.

Sherlock, hurt because of John's stupid choices.

Sherlock, shot by John's wife.

Sherlock, the only person in all the world John truly trusted, despite the hardships they had endured.

But to have Sherlock suddenly dependent on him was beyond terrifying. To be Sherlock's only hope, Sherlock needing him _now _to deliver him from hurt- the thought made John sick. In years he hadn't seen anything so distressful, not since the war.

Steely coldness was gripping him, constricting his throat-

_Screams rang out in the night air, debris flying through the air, the dust making it impossible to breath, to see. Blood stained his hands, thick and warm. The flesh under his hands no longer pulsed-_

John grunted in frustration, agonizingly trying to pull himself back to reality. His head swam with visions of the war-

_the blood was still on his hands, dripping down his throat and choking him-_

No, he was in the flat, dimly aware that Sherlock was in front of him-

_The whole regiment was dead. He had been too late, only in time to watch them breathe their last breaths, to have them die in his arms-_

He was in 221B, he was safe, he was home-

_more than twenty men dead in one explosion. They had been ambushed; they were new recruits not even ready for the front lines, barely ready to go on the solo mission. So many fatalities, so many dead bodies-_

"J-John…"

John blinked, and with a sudden wave of vertigo, he was back. The visions had been wrenched away, and he could see prisms of cobalt, clear and radiant in an icy hue-

Sherlock was staring at him, his eyes bloodshot and face stained with tears. John stumbled to his side, falling to his knees in front of Sherlock. Sherlock stared at him wordlessly, exhaustion evident in his eyes.

"PTSD episode?" He croaked pitifully.

"Yeah." John answered, ashamed. "You were in pain, and I guess it triggered-"

Sherlock's hand squeezed John's shoulder in an attempt to lend comfort. John swallowed, abating the sudden tide of emotions. It had been the first time he had ever been able to escape a PTSD episode. Years of trauma therapy, of nightly grisly visions had done nothing. He had been haunted by the shadows of the past. Constantly cutting himself on the sharp edges of his shattered soul.

Sherlock was loosing consciousness. His breathing had evened. John checked his pulse. Roughly eighty beats a minute, normal. Sherlock's hand was still on his shoulder, though his grip had slackened. Muscles relaxing, another good sign.

"Try to get some sleep." John advised. "I'll be here if you need anything. Relax."

"Uuumm…" Sherlock sighed, his face loosing its tension. His eyes were closing. " You petted me before." Sherlock slurred, the drugs taking affect. "In the car."

"Let the sedative do its work, Sherlock." John urged, but this only served for Sherlock to fight it more. He forced his eyes open, his eyes glazed over and unfocused.

"You did. Redbeard would nuzzle me- his fur was so soft…jumper soft... Mycroft said that he thought I was his puppy…" Sherlock laughed weakly, his eyes fluttering closed. "Felt… good. You did it to me in the car. Petting."

"I didn't realize you were conscious."

"Wazzint…" Sherlock mumbled. John smiled sadly, his hand going to Sherlock's hairline, his fingers running through his damp curls. Sherlock's mouth twitched upward in a smile.

"Thaz better…" He murmured blissfully. "Redbeard... missed you...why'd you leave me...? I was so alone..." Sherlock's hand squeezed John's shoulder.

"I missed you, Redbeard..."

"Who's Redbeard?" John whispered as he stroked, his eyes studying Sherlock's face inquiringly.

But Sherlock had already fallen asleep.

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**What did you think about this chapter? I need to know what you guys think in order to continue! **

**A huge thanks to Crufis, who liked the image John smoothing Sherlock's hair. I decided to expand on that element because of that review. Are there any elements of the story you would like me to explore? Let me know!**


	3. Falling Apart

The world was on fire.

Waves of intense heat from the explosions overcame him, his face blistering and causing him to stumble. Dry sand flew through the air in all directions stinging his eyes angrily. Dying screams filled the air, choked screams as men fell to the ground, their eyes unseeing- it was a chaotic hell, the utter desolation and slaughter beyond his comprehension. The rapid fire of machine guns shattered the air, the sound pounding itself into his skull despite his earplugs.

John clutched the first aid kit against his chest protectively, stumbling through the wreckage of abandoned trenches. He almost tripped over a body half buried in rubble. He dropped to the ground in front of it, his hand going to the fallen soldier's neck to feel for a pulse.

It was there, but it was faint. At that moment the soldier groaned, twisting his torso to reveal a steadily growing dark crimson stain on his uniform. A bullet to the chest. John desperately pressed his hand to the wound, trying to slow the blood loss. With his other hand he threw open the first aid kit and removed a roll of ace bandages. John shielded the fallen man's body with his own, wincing as he was pelted by debris caused by the newest explosion. John willed himself to focus on the delicate life hanging in the balance, refusing to acknowledge his own pain. Screams were still ringing in his ears, but John refused to move on until he deemed the man at least stable enough to hold on until the battle was over and could be transported back to base for emergency surgery. John wound the bandage around his patient's torso, rationing as much as could be spared. However, the soldier's breathing was the true problem. It became apparent with every wheezing breath, each one progressively more halting and shallow. John realized in a blinding instant that he would have to resuscitate the fallen solider. Forgoing his effort to stop the bleeding, John fumbled to remove the young soldier's combat helmet.

Unruly black curls framing a familiar pale face filled his vision.

John's breathing hitched. He stared down, horrified, at the still body before him.

Fear like none he had ever known before gripped his heart.

"It's what you like, isn't it?" Came the cold, lifeless voice.

No.

_No._

John looked up slowly, towards the one voice that had shown through the darkness during his time of grief.

Mary stood silhouetted in the gleaming Afghanistan sun, her handgun pointing directly at his heart. Her wedding dress flowed hauntingly in the wind caused by the explosions, the veil framing her face catching the light and flickering like fire. Her dead eyes watched him emotionlessly, devoid of the spark of wit and cleverness that he had once loved.

"You," John shuddered, a single tear coursing down his face as he stared up as her. "You- _you shot him._" John whispered, all his pain rising in his voice like broken glass. "How- why-"

"You love danger," Mary purred, her finger caressing the trigger.

"But this is different." John trembled, his voice thick with grief. "You shot _him_. You saw me fall apart when I thought he died, and you still..." John voice broke. He could see Sherlock's sickly pale face seared beneath his eyelids.

"Caring is a disadvantage, Johnny Boy." Mary taunted. John winced as she used his old childhood nickname, the one Harriet had given him. The name only stirred memories of empty bottles littering a dingy flat, of his drunken sister advancing on him, shouting abuses-

"S-stop." John whimpered, tears rolling down his face.

"I will never stop," Mary spat venomously. "You _chose_ me, remember that? I'm here because of _you._ Your only friend is dying because of _you._" John looked down at the body he was covering, the young fallen soldier.

Sherlock.

John grasped Sherlock's face in his hands, frantically searching for any hint of life. The dark eyelashes rested in stark contrast to the smooth, pale face.

"A bit young for this war, wasn't he?" Mary called, her voice cold and unforgiving. "But I suppose this never was his war. It's yours."

"This isn't his fight." John choked, taking Sherlock's shoulders and cradling him in his arms. Tears dripped from his eyes into the mess of curls.

"And yet he's still fighting for it. Fighting for you." Mary sneered. "What a mess you've made."

"Just do it then, damn it!" John screamed, his voice cracking with emotion. A shaking sob escaped him. "Just shoot! You've been aiming at my heart this whole time, so end it!"

"But I've already shot, John." Mary spoke softly, her voice once again emotionless. "Straight into your heart."

John looked down at the limp body in his arms, his eyes widening in horror. The breathing had ceased, the pulse given way. Sherlock, his best and only friend, was utterly still in his arms.

The world was on fire.

* * *

John's eyes flew open, his heart pounding in his throat. It took him several moments to gather his bearings. He was curled up in his old armchair, back in 221B. He was staying with Sherlock, who had just been released from the hospital yesterday.

Even though the curtains were drawn, sunlight filtered into the darken living room. Damn, it was already morning, if not even later in the day.

Afghanistan, Mary and the gun, Sherlock dying in his arms- John shivered despite the welcoming warmness of the flat. Just a nightmare, then. And a particularly bad one at that. Probably influenced by his PTSD as well. John groaned, rubbing his face wearily with a yawn. It was only when he moved to stretch- his shoulder was aching- that he noticed the blanket covering him.

The familiar orange fleece was carefully draped on top of his lap. John frowned, his gaze travelling towards the sofa.

Sherlock was gone.

**TBC**

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**So, what do you guys think? Good storyline so far? I know I said this would be a collection of one-shots, but a certain John begged the differ. So now here I am, an incidental story on my hands- goodness. **

**A huge thanks to Crufis and Ziggy, reviewers who offered suggestions! **

**Please review!**


	4. Shattered

"Sherlock?!" John stumbled out of his armchair blindly, blinking away the fogginess of sleep. The IV machine lying next to the sofa, but Sherlock was no longer attached to it. John stomach gave a painful lurch at the sight of the needle at the end of one tube, sticky with blood. Some of the blood had dripped onto the floor, a puddle of scarlet staining the dark wood. A lump formed in John's throat.

There had to be a reasonable explanation for his missing friend, John thought desperately. But what could excuse his friend, so recently back from the dead- literally this time, John thought with a shudder- to leave? John ran a hand through his short blond hair, at a complete loss. Why did Sherlock always do this to him? He was always being left behind, constantly in the dark. Sherlock was going to kill himself if he kept on like this.

There was an echoing thud from down the hall. John froze, his heart giving a painful lurch. Seconds later he was tearing through the kitchen, knocking down an array of half-finished experiments lining the counters in his panic.

"Sherlock? Where the hell are you?!" John shouted, his heart racing. There was a brief moment of silence, the only noise the rush of blood in John's ears and the rapid beating of his frantic heart. All was silent, and then-

"In the bathroom." Came the meek reply. John could feel relief seep its way through him, followed by a fresh wave at concern.

"Are you okay? Sherlock, you can't do this to me again!" John tried the bathroom door. After a few terse moments of jiggling the antique brass knob, John gave up with a grunt. "Sherlock, open the door."

"…No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?!" John said, instantly flaring up. "Sherlock, what's going on? Are you alright?"

"'Course I'm alright, don't be an idiot."

"What are you doing?"

"What do most people do when the visit the loo?" Sherlock sighed, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"You should no better than to get up by yourself." John reprimanded. "You could have woken me up. And you disconnected yourself from the IV! I almost had a heart attack when I woke up and you were gone, you git!"

"…I'm sorry." Was the weak response. John's tirade died at Sherlock's apology, his protective fury replaced by confusion.

"You… what?"

"You heard what I said, don't make me repeat it." Sherlock retorted sharply. John stood staring at the bathroom door, his brow furrowed in thought.

"You never apologize." John said softly, frowning. Something wasn't right, and he was furiously trying to figure out what it was.

"Sherlock… what's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, John." Sherlock insisted, his voice tight.

"I can tell you're lying to me."

"Don't you have tea to boil or something equally mundane?!"

"I know you use your terrible attitude to hide behind. Something's not right. Open the door. Now." John ordered, his spine erect and steely gaze even, ever the soldier. "Or so help me, I will break it down."

"John, can you hear yourself?!" Sherlock scoffed, but there was an uncharacteristic stress behind his smooth baritone. "Don't be absurd."

"I'm not." John said evenly, professional calmness masking his worry. "Whatever stupid idea you've gotten trapped in your mind this time needs to stop."

"Just give me a moment." Sherlock pleaded through gritted teeth. "I'll be out soon."

There was a new sound- one of a zipper being pulled. John sucked in his breath as he recognized the sound. His shoulders tensed, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Sherlock?" John asked gently, willing himself to stay calm. "Do- do you have my medical bag in there with you?"

"…yes." John was suddenly very alert to the numerous drugs he kept tucked away in his medical bag. Many of them were prescription painkillers and narcotics, used only by medical professionals in emergency situations. The muscle relaxants, the endorphin stimulators… all neatly placed in syringes, their silver needles hauntingly alluring. An overdose by inexperienced hands could prove lethal.

Sherlock Holmes, former drug addict, was locked inside a room with enough drugs to kill a man with a single injection.

John closed his eyes, slowly letting out the breath he hadn't known he had been holding.

"And why," John said evenly, his voice deadly calm, like the eye of a storm. "Do have my medical bag?" John forced himself to wait for Sherlock's reply. He couldn't do anything too alarming, too reckless. If he broke down the door without warning now, Sherlock might panic- and what would happen then was anyone's guess.

"Just borrowing it for the moment." Sherlock's ragged voice echoed from the other side of the door.

"And what are you doing with it?" John breathed, flexing his fists agitatedly.

"Just doctoring up." Sherlock panted. The color drained out of John's face. His stomach knotted up, bile rising in his throat.

"Unlock the door. Now. Or I break the door down."

"The door'll come out of your rent." Was the cheeky reply. "You little-" John snapped, tossing caution to the winds. John slammed his entire weight into the door. The resulting crash was overwhelming and could be heard throughout the entire block. The whitewashed door was left shaking loosely on its antique rusted hinges, one hit from the furious army doctor almost knocking it down entirely. John braced himself, ready to throw his weight at the door again when it moved. It slowly, mildly opened, Sherlock peering out into the hall at John, bemused.

"There's no need to be so impatient." Sherlock huffed, dusting off the sleeve of his mauve dress shirt, the hospital gown lying discarded in a crumbled pile next to the bath. John grabbed the young man by the forearms and fairly dragged him out into the hall.

"What have you done?" John practically yelled with mounting anxiety, taking Sherlock's arm and rolling up his sleeve. "Did you use any of the analgesics?!" John twisted the arm around, searching for even the smallest hint of a needle prick on the alabaster skin.

"Ah," Sherlock swallowed, his other hand fluttering uncertainly towards John's shoulder. "I understand now. You thought that perhaps I was using again."

"Did you inject anything?!" John asked wildly, eyes bright with distress.

"Nothing." Sherlock assured him, his expression darkening as guilt at worrying John gnawed at his heart. "I didn't mean to alarm you."

"What were you doing then?" John asked, finally letting go of Sherlock's arm. Sherlock fiddled with his cuff links, avoiding his friend's intense gaze.

"Just wanted to get into some proper clothing." Sherlock brushed nonexistent dust from his shirt with a sniff, looking down at John irritably. "Now, if you'll be so kind as to excuse me-" Sherlock sniffed, brushing passed John in the hallway and striding into the kitchen. "And I'd prefer milk with my tea." Sherlock called over his shoulder. John watched Sherlock with a frown, his warm eyes troubled.

"So… you just wanted to get out of the hospital gown?"

"Terribly drafty. How long on that tea?"

"Who says I'm making tea?!"

"Of course you will. Ritualistic tranquilizing. You find boiling tea therapeutic, most likely because of the normalcy of the custom and the soothing herbal smell. Sentiment as well, your mother drank tea." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, staring at John with fierce intensity, his cobalt eyes gleaming. "Tea was the kind of luxury never afforded to you in Afghanistan, wasn't it?" Sherlock reconsidered, his eyebrow rising appraisingly. John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. With some amount of resentment, John entered the kitchen, walking over to the gas stove and turning it on.

"Fine, I get it. Enough of the mind games." John grumbled, rifling in the cupboard for a few moments before extracting the kettle. Moving the experiment in the sink- Sherlock seemed to have been in the process of straining and drying human small intestines a few days ago- John turned on the tap. "Go sit down, will you?" John called over his shoulder as the kettle slowly filled. "Don't try inserting the IV yourself though. I'll have to sanitize the-" John casually looked over at Sherlock, then did a double-take. Sherlock was pointedly ignoring John's lecture, checking the contents of the fridge with his back to John.

His back…

On the back of Sherlock's purple dress shirt, a dark scarlet stain was growing.

* * *

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	5. Broken Glass

"Sherlock."

It was the first word out of John's parted lips. The army doctor said it slowly, breathing it out like a sigh. Sadness tinged the edges of his voice seconds before the adrenaline kicked in, prompting him into action.

But for the barest moment, John felt nothing. Hollowed, like a dried husk. The scarlet was much too familiar to him. The grotesque stain on his old flatmate, his best man, his best friend.

Stained red again. Like he had been on the pavement. Lying broken in a mess of dark scarlet, pale face streaked with blood and brilliant eyes opened but unseeing.

It was like that day all over again, and all the tortured nights since. The fall that spun out of control, raw all-consuming grief and the tears and the screams in the middle of the night-

John inhaled carefully, his heart pounding in his throat.

And then the adrenaline kicked in.

"Get down." John ordered, striding over to Sherlock and taking him by the shoulders. Sherlock twirled around, looking down at John with a puzzled frown. He shuffled uneasily in John's grip, his black curls shadowing his eyes.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock sniffed, with his customary air of arrogance, an eyebrow shooting up quizzically. But John was in no mood. Without the slightest hesitation, he let go out Sherlock and jabbed his thumb into the base of the young detective's neck. Sherlock's response was instantaneous, gasping helplessly and his eyes narrowing against the pain. John leaned in, his sadness evolving into rage.

"Go down. Now." John hissed, working his thumb into Sherlock's pressure point to emphasize the message.

"Wh-what the hell-" Sherlock grunted, his jaw clenched. He weakly attempted to push John away, but the army doctor stood his ground. Yet Sherlock was as stubborn as he was brilliant. Even as tears of pain began to fill his eyes, the detective refused to budge. With his free hand John gripped Sherlock's upper arm, urging the young man to go down. Finally with a strangled groan, Sherlock complied, letting John help him carefully sink to his knees.

"You... utter... git..." Sherlock breathed heavily as John released him. Sherlock glared at him with a strange mixture of anger and loathing. Yet behind it all, even as Sherlock groaned and rubbed his shoulder, sulking.

"I can't feel my arm," Sherlock whined, wiggling his fingers weakly. "How'd you learn to do that?"

"I picked it up after years of dealing with idiots like you." John said between gritted teeth. "If you'd have listened to me sooner, it wouldn't hurt so much."

"It's numb. If the blood circulation to my entire limb has been severed and I have to get the appendage amputated, I'll never forgive you."

"Don't be such a drama queen, nobody's appendage is getting amputated!" John scolded. "Now lie down on your stomach, or I swear to God I'll do it again." Sherlock glanced down at the dirty kitchen floor, his nose wrinkling.

"Why?"

"Because," John hissed, trying with little success to control his mounting temper. "You. Are. Injured."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock sputtered, the blood draining out of his face.

"Don't even try lying to me again, Sherlock Holmes!" John shouted, finally boiling over. "I can see the blood. You lied straight to my face: you said there wasn't an exit wound from the bullet!" John's hands were in fists and his breathing heavy, as if at a moment's notice he would launch into a fight. Sherlock stared at him hopelessly.

"I never lied to you." Came the meek, hollow reply. Sherlock's lips were pressed together in a tight line, his eyes moistened. John's anger was eclipsed by horrified confusion.

"W-what?"

"I never lied to you, John." Sherlock said somberly. His pale face had grown sickly, despair like broken glass reflected in his eyes.

"But you're bleeding." John sputtered, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not! Let me see." John demanded, trying to put a hand on Sherlock's back. Sherlock flinched away from his touch.

"No, don't-"

"Christ Sherlock, you've got to let me see it!" John growled, his eyes darkening with frustration and worry. "And tell me this: if it's not the exit wound from the bullet like you claim, what is it then?"

Sherlock wetted his lips nervously.

"I- I never meant for you to find out." Sherlock choked, his eyes closing and his brow furrowing at the pain of his words. "Please, John."

"Sherlock, you've got to let me help you."

"I... I can't." Sherlock bowed his head in shame, a hand unconsciously coming up to shield himself from John's concerned gaze. The young detective actually appeared to be... trembling, though he tried to suppress it.

"You're worrying me." John said, his voice strained with distress. "This has something to do with the medical bag, doesn't it?"

"I didn't want you to see." Sherlock echoed, his voice soft. "I knew my earlier bandages I had on absorbed as much as they could. But... it just kept bleeding." John's heart gave a painful lurch at his friend's words.

"What did you do?" John forced himself to speak. When Sherlock didn't answer at first, John placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

"I tried bandaging it again." Sherlock whimpered, wincing as if he remembered the pain. "I've seen you do it to patients before, but I didn't anticipate the difficulty of doing it on myself."

"Oh, Sherlock..."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock trembled, shakily getting to his feet. John made no move to stop him, only continued to stare at him. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, stumbling over to the counter. "I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbled again, disoriented. His brilliant cobalt eyes couldn't seem to pull away from John's.

"I'm so sorry."

Sherlock turned and fled the room.

* * *

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